‘Lambchop!’ boomed Mr Gale.
Never answer. If I don’t answer, I thought, he’ll have to call me ‘Peter’.
‘Lambchop!’
I held my breath.
‘Lambchop!’ But I couldn’t ignore a teacher—not three times.
‘Yes, sir?’ And Kat had said I was my name and my name was who I was. Maybe I was a Lambchop after all.
‘Excellent, Lambchop. I thought we’d lost you there; away with the fairies. But, what I’m wondering is why you’re here at all. A new child on the first day of summer term? It could completely bugger up the finely tuned balance of my class. Anyway,’ he said, ‘best get on. Have a fresh piece of paper.’
My name is Peter Lambert. I am aged 10 years old. I live in Everlasting Lane in a vilag called Amberley. I have moved here from …
I’d squeezed Kat’s hand as we’d stepped into the entrance of Dovecot Junior School. A jolly woman with ginger hair had appeared. ‘Good morning, dear,’ she said. ‘Can I help?’
‘Hello. This is Peter,’ said Kat. ‘Peter Lambert. He’s just moved into the village. And, erm … He’d like to come to school … Please.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said the woman with a wide smile. ‘There was a letter from county, wasn’t there?’ When Kat said nothing the woman enquired: ‘And you’re his mother?’
‘Of course,’ murmured Kat through gritted teeth. ‘Yes, of course.’ I might easily have reacted if she hadn’t squeezed my hand. For a minute I’d completely forgotten she was my mother.
‘Wonderful,’ said the woman. ‘Well, hello, Peter, I’m Mrs Ingalls, the school secretary.’ And then to Kat: ‘You’ll need to fill out a form.’
As Kat completed our details, twice scrunching up the form and asking for a replacement, Mrs Ingalls said, ‘You know, you really are quite familiar, dear. Do I know you?’
Kat smiled but said, ‘Oh, Peter hasn’t got any uniform or anything.’
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ said Mrs Ingalls. ‘We can dig something out of lost property, can’t we, Peter? Of course, we can.’ She presented me with a school tie, red and white stripes, an infant tie with elastic to loop around your neck. ‘Now, now, Peter,’ said Mrs Ingalls. ‘Don’t be like that. Keep it under your collar and no-one will ever know.’
‘Now that,’ said Kat, ‘is always good advice.’
Mr Gale had brown hair, a thick neck and a large head. He seized my tiny hand in his fist.
‘Who’s this?’ he said.
Mrs Ingalls introduced me. ‘This is Peter Lambert,’ she explained. ‘He’s just moved into Everlasting Lane,’ before departing with a smile and a gentle, ‘Good luck.’
‘Welcome to Dovecot, Peter,’ said Mr Gale. He turned me to face the class, gripping my shoulders until his fingers pinched. ‘Mr Gale’s class,’ he boomed, ‘this is Peter. Peter Lambert. Peter, this is the class. Say, “Good morning”, the class.’
I wilted beneath the glare of twenty-three strangers. ‘Good morning, Mr Gale,’ they chanted. If the eyes of one suspicious ten-year-old can slice and dice you, ‘Good morning, Peter,’ the eyes of twenty-three can turn you into mincemeat.
‘Say, “Good morning”, Peter Lambert. Lamby-Lambert.’
‘Good morning,’ I said, face boiling.
‘Peter,’ said Mr Gale, ‘Mr Lamby-Lambert, I, for one, am glad to meet you. But, my, your shoulders are tense.’ He examined my neck. ‘Aha, I think I’ve discovered the culprit.’ He pulled on my elasticated tie revealing it to everyone. The class squealed with delight. ‘No, no, class,’ said Mr Gale wagging his finger, ‘there is nothing to be ashamed of in not being able to tie a tie.’ I tried to interrupt but, ‘Even at the age of nine,’ he continued. ‘I only learnt to tie my shoelaces a week ago last Thursday.’
He put me next to a boy with curly black hair and thick-framed glasses. ‘Do you know Winnie?’ said Mr Gale. ‘He’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer but is, nonetheless, still too clever for his own good. You two must be neighbours.’
There was no spare chair, so I was given a stool, and sat head and shoulders above the rest of the children. Mr Gale might just as well have given me a flag to wave—I couldn’t have felt any more stupid. Then he snapped his fingers.
‘Lambchop!’ he exclaimed. ‘Of course! That’s what we’ll call you!’ Well, I’d been wrong. Now I couldn’t feel any more stupid.
My name is Peter Lambert. I am aged 10 years old. I live in Everlasting Lane in a villag called Amberly. I used to live in L__________. Now I live with my arnt my mother Kat mumm Kat arnt …
I dropped my head into my hands. It wasn’t my fault. I’d lain awake all night dreaming of gloomy green curtains and—
‘Hmm,’ said Mr Gale, ‘a lot of crossing out. And what are all these … these … these doodles?’
‘Doors, sir.’
‘Doors? What sort of doors?’
‘Secret doors.’
He gave me an odd look. ‘Well, perhaps we should just …’ And, before I could object, my piece of paper was scrunched and sailing through the air, landing two feet shy of the bin. ‘Piss-sticks!’ said Mr Gale.
In morning assembly, the headmistress, Mrs Carpenter, read a Bible story. She had all these wrinkles and curly white hair. Her dress was purple and green, and a tiny silver cross hung on a thin chain about her neck. Time thickened like porridge as she spoke and the hands of the hall clock struggled until she closed the book and looked up with a satisfied smile.
‘Put your hands together,’ she said, ‘and close your eyes.’
After the story, the prayer and a hymn, Mrs Carpenter read ‘notices’. Following an instruction from, ‘Mr Waterberry, that nobody should play on the swings until the broken seat has been replaced,’ and a reminder that, ‘although you are allowed on the field at lunchtime, footballers must pick up and replace all divots without exception,’ I was welcomed. ‘You may have noticed a new face in the third year today.’ Everyone turned to look. Little children in the first row swivelled, stared and gasped in amazement. ‘I am sure you will all welcome Peter Lambert to Dovecot, and, if you see him looking a little lost, perhaps you will stop and offer him assistance. After all, as Jesus said …’
I looked around to see Anna-Marie at the far end of the row behind mine, a grey, thready cardigan draped over the shoulders of her blue checked dress. Her lips were thin and her eyes, dark and angry, glared at the headmistress.
‘Well, Lambchop,’ said Mr Gale, ‘this is a special day, did you know that?’
‘No, Mr Gale.’
‘No, Mr Gale,’ he repeated. ‘Well, today is the first day of a new term and, therefore, it is the day in which we … we … we finish the work we didn’t quite finish last term.’ The class groaned. ‘Hey, hey,’ he responded, ‘you’re not here to enjoy yourselves. We’ve got to finish the old before we start the new. History folders out.’
A hand, attached to the arm of a pretty girl with shiny raven hair, shot up. ‘Lambchop,’ continued Mr Gale, ‘you know, I always say history is like geography: if you don’t know where you started, how do you know you’re travelling in the right direction? Right? I … What is it, Smelanie?’ said Mr Gale. ‘You sound like a hamster.’
‘I’ve finished all my topic work, sir.’
It was Mr Gale’s turn to groan. ‘Right. Then you, Smel-a-nie, should write a story entitled The … The … The Secret Garden. No … Goldfish. Garden or Goldfish.’
‘But which?’
‘Garden, goldfish, rubber, pencil, window, door. I really don’t care. You decide.’
‘But how many sides?’
‘Smelanie, you mustn’t allow your creativity to be stifled by such petty considerations. But if you could have it finished by lunchtime on the dot that would be great. Okay?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Lambchop?’
‘Yes, Sir?’
‘What are you staring at?’
‘What? Nothing, Sir. Sorry, Sir.’
‘Splendid.’
The curly-
haired boy nudged me. ‘Are we really neighbours?’ he whispered. His jumper was baggy and shapeless, his tie skewiff and a top button pulled tight across his throat. One side of his grubby white collar poked up into his cheek.
I told him I lived in Everlasting Lane.
Mr Gale coughed and the boy put pen to paper, blue ink staining his fingers. He wrote two words.
‘That’s where I live,’ he said, attempting to slow the flow of ink with a scrap of well-used blotting paper. ‘Where are you from?’
When I told him he said, ‘I used to live in London. That’s where my dad lives.’ His eyes twinkled behind heavy lenses. ‘He says it’s much better than living in Amberley.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Are you Tommie?’
‘How do you know?’
‘Anna-Marie told me.’
His face blazed bright red. His lip stiffened. And he punched me.
‘What is it, Lambchop?’ asked Mr Gale looking up from the blackboard.
‘Nothing, Sir,’ I said, rubbing my arm.
‘Right. Good,’ said Mr Gale, ‘but maybe writing: I must keep my Neanderthal outbursts to myself, thirty times during playtime will encourage you to contain your enthusiasm.’ He returned to his chalk. ‘Oh, and as Winnie’s causing you a bit too much excitement, why don’t you move that big ol’ stool next to Smelanie? You won’t find self-control so much of a struggle under her influence.’ Smelanie—I mean Melanie—Finch blushed as she slid her pencil case, rubber, ruler, gonk and dictionary to one side.
Tommie turned around as I moved my stool and settled into my new place, his lenses flashed with anger as he mouthed: ‘I hate you!’
I must keep my nandatarl outbursts to myself,
I must keep my narandatall outbursts to myself,
I must keep my nanatall outbursts to myself,
I must keep my nranndatawl outbursts to myself …
It just wasn’t a word I knew, although I turned Smelanie’s dictionary inside out trying to find it.
8
Melanie Finch wrote feverishly all morning long and even glancing at the clock didn’t slow her down. Her pen flashed across the page leaving dazzling loops and curls. It made my own writing look rubbish but when I asked to borrow a rubber, Melanie puffed.
‘You’re not allowed to use a rubber.’
‘What?’
‘You’re supposed to use a pen,’ she hissed. She wrestled my pencil from my hand, ‘Pens are for writing,’ and shoved a pen in its place, ‘pencils are for maths, and crayons,’ she returned to her story, ‘are for babies.’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ She looked at me as if I was demented. ‘It’s the rules,’ and with an exasperated huff she turned her sharp little shoulder blade towards me.
As the lunch bell rang, Melanie’s hand was a skyrocket. ‘Finished, Sir!’
“Finished, Sir!” squealed Mr Gale, marking books. He didn’t look up as he said, ‘Well done, Finchy. Leave it on the ol’ desk.’ A thick finger indicated a tall, untidy pile. ‘I’ll look at it later.’
‘Couldn’t you read it now, sir? Please?’
‘Tell me, Finchy, does the last sentence read and then I woke up and it was all a dream or words to that effect?’ He still hadn’t looked up.
Melanie’s voice, when she did answer, was soft as snow and twice as cold. ‘I didn’t have enough time.’
‘Oh, Finchy, you know how I feel about all that Alice-in-Wonderland-crap,’ said Mr Gale. ‘Now, put it on my desk and I’ll look at it later.’
Melanie slapped her story on top of the tottering heap before returning to her place, cheeks flushed with fury.
‘Psst.’ I looked up. ‘Hey.’ It was Tommie Winslow. ‘Peter,’ he said, ‘can I borrow something?’
I nodded warily. After all, I had nothing to lend.
He leant back towards me, his chair balanced on its back legs. ‘This,’ he said grabbing the piece of paper on which I’d been working. With a smirk of triumph he reduced it to a crumpled fistful and launched it smartly in to the wastepaper bin.
During playtime I wandered around the playground peering into classrooms, checking apparatus, studying the fancy dovecot that gave the school its name. Tommie was on the field playing football. I could feel him watching me, so I tried to look as if I had more important things on my mind whilst listening to the footballers’ cries, the hopscotch and the singsong rhythms of the skipping-rope rhymes:
Poor little Alice,
Berries from a tree,
Poor little Alice,
Swimming in the sea.
Ma’s out, pa’s out, baby don’t cry,
How many ways must the poor girl die?
And then I saw Anna-Marie.
Back towards the school was a climbing frame and swings. It was a double swing but the seat of one was missing so the chains hung loose. Anna-Marie, her tatty cardigan now knotted about her waist, was sitting on the other, one foot dragging in the dry dirt.
I was about to run up to her when Tommie appeared and grabbed my arm. ‘Do you want to play footie?’ he said, pulling me away. ‘You can be on my team but you’ll have to be goalie.’
Before I could answer we were distracted by a loud voice. This scary-looking woman, a dinner-lady who could just as well have been a dinner-man, was shouting at Anna-Marie. ‘Mrs Carpenter says nobody plays on the swing!’
‘I’m not playing, Miss Lennox,’ said Anna-Marie, shyly investigating a bruise that had appeared at her throat. ‘I don’t play games.’
‘You don’t follow rules either,’ snapped Miss Lennox. ‘Now, off the swing!’
‘Why?’ asked Anna-Marie. ‘I’m not hurting anybody.’
Poor little Alice,
Choking on a cake,
Poor little Alice,
Stepping on a snake.
Ma’s out, pa’s out, baby don’t cry,
How many ways must the poor girl die?
‘If you don’t get off this swing, I’m going to take you to Mrs Carpenter.’
‘Hello, Juliette.’ A very pretty young woman with a bundle of dark blonde hair had emerged from a nearby classroom. ‘Is there a problem?’ The new lady wore a tracksuit and a bright blue bib with ‘GA’ printed on the front in big white capitals. A whistle and a pendant hung side by side around her neck flashing in the sun.
Miss Lennox’s eyes rolled up and down the younger woman from the top of her curly mop to the toes of her plimsolls. ‘No, Miss Pevensie,’ she said with a sigh. ‘No problem.’ She glanced at Anna-Marie. ‘Just the Queen of Sheba here doesn’t think the rules apply to her.’
‘It’s a stupid rule, Miss Pevensie,’ whined Anna-Marie. ‘It’s just a swing. It’s not like I’m going to kill myself.’
‘Come on,’ nagged Tommie. ‘Are you playing?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m going to help Anna-Marie.’
‘No, you’re not!’ he said. ‘I am!’
‘Oh, look, Miss Pevensie,’ said Anna-Marie as she saw us coming, ‘it’s Tweedledum and Tweedlethick.’ She looked at us as if we were a pair of brown blobs floating in her semolina.
Miss Pevensie puffed out her cheeks. ‘Lordy, Anna-Marie,’ she said, ‘why don’t you do us all a favour,’ as she spoke she seized a fistful of the hair on the top of her head, ‘and get off the swing?’
Anna-Marie sighed and slid to the ground. ‘Okay, Miss Pevensie,’ she said, and then, ‘Well, Miss Lennox, you’d better get me to the old … dear before I change my mind.’ The skipping-ropers stopped to watch as Anna-Marie marched across the playground towards the school building, Miss Lennox spluttering in her wake. Some of the older girls, including Melanie Finch, laughed or hissed at her as she passed.
‘Anna-Marie,’ I said, ‘I—’
‘And you two,’ she snapped, ‘can bog off!’
Poor little Alice,
Skating on the ice.
Poor little Alice,
Careless with a knife.
Ma’s out, pa’s out, baby don’t cry,
How many ways must the poor girl die?
Tommie Winslow was much friendlier after lunch. I didn’t know why. He lent me his felt tips and showed me, to Melanie’s annoyance, the answers to the maths.
‘Well, Winnie,’ said Mr Gale, ‘Peter’s done very well on his multiplication.’ Tommie nodded. ‘And now I can … I can … I can retire with satisfaction. I’ll tell you what though,’ he said slapping Tommie hard on the shoulder, ‘why don’t you accompany me to the big ol’ blackboard and explain it to the rest of the class?’ Tommie didn’t move. ‘Stage fright? Not to worry, Winnie my boy, pack yourself off to Mrs Carpenter and explain it all to her instead.’
‘Please, Sir.’
‘Please, Sir. Please, Sir,’ repeated Mr Gale, veins throbbing on his temples. ‘Listen, boy,’ he snarled, ‘I am not paid enough to put up with your silly games. Don’t take me for a fool, boy! D’you hear me? Don’t take me for a fool!’ Tommie nodded, his thick-rimmed glasses filled with fear. ‘Maybe fifteen minutes at home-time every day this week will make my point for me.’
Tommie’s face collapsed. ‘A week?’
‘Oh, and, Lambchop,’ continued Mr Gale with a smile, ‘if you don’t understand, ask me. That’s my job. What would I do all day if Winnie were to start teaching the class? That makes sense, doesn’t it?’ I nodded. ‘Fine, fine,’ he said. ‘Glad to get that cleared up.
‘Now, kids, why don’t you get out your folders and finish off your river poems? And if you’ve finished your poems you can … How about a poster for the summer fair? Or something.
‘Winnie, take young Lambchop here down to the office and ask Mrs Ingalls to give him a topic folder of his very own. Wha’d’you say? Splendid.
‘Put your hand down, Smelanie. You sound like a gerbil.’
Poor little Alice,
Tripping on a wire,
Poor little Alice,
Playing by the fire.
Ma’s out, pa’s out, baby don’t cry,
How many ways must the poor girl die?
Tommie led me from the classroom to the playground and into a small space between the bins behind the generator.
Everlasting Lane Page 5
